History Repeats Itself
by Elijah-ships-johnlock
Summary: Greg and Mycroft are arguing and Greg hits Mycroft. TW: domestic abuse. Mystrade. Johnlock. Overprotective!Sherlock.


_**A/N: Please do not consider my work as any kind of relationship advice. If you're in a relationship with someone and you girlfriend/boyfriend/partner violently lashes out at you, DO NOT JUST LET THEM BACK INSIDE YOUR FLAT. Don't forgive them right away and if your girlfriend/boyfriend/partner **_**has ****_violently lashed out at you, you need to GET OUT OF THAT RELATIONSHIP._**

* * *

Mycroft and Greg rarely fought. But when they did, it almost always resulted in screaming, insults, and not speaking to each other for days. But Greg had never ever even thought about physically harming Mycroft.

He didn't know how it happened. They'd been arguing and suddenly he just lashed out at him. Mycroft felt Greg's fist collide with his face and Greg stumbled backwards. Blood dripped from Mycroft's nose onto the tiled floor of their kitchen.

"Oh my god...Myc, I - "

"Get out."

Greg nodded and turned around, out the front door and out of their flat, not even grabbing his coat. He walked, no particular direction, just needing to get as far away from what he'd done as possible. Christ, he'd hit him. The man he loved, the man who trusted him. Mycroft would probably never speak to him again. He had every right to completely cut Greg out of his life.

_I'm sorry. GL_

_I don't want to talk to you. MH_

_I didn't mean to hit you. GL_

_Leave me alone. MH_

Greg sighed and put his phone away. He wished he could go back and undo it.

Not watching where he was going, Greg ran into someone, no, two someones.

"Sorry, I should've been paying attention," he muttered.

"Hello Detective Inspector." Greg looked up to see John and Sherlock. He could smell the faintest trace of wine on John and the two of them were loosely holding hands. Coming home from a date, thought Greg.

"Oh...um, hi."

"Bit late to be out for a walk," remarked John. "Where's Mycroft?"

"You two have been arguing," observed Sherlock.

"Oh," said John.

"Lestrade thinks he's in the wrong." Sherlock furrowed his brow, studying him. Lestrade looked down at the ground, feeling Sherlock's eyes bore into him.

"I uh...we were fighting and...I don't know how it happened really...I just sort of...hit him."

Sherlock grew cold. If looks could kill, Lestrade would be dead. A surge of protectiveness flashed over Sherlock's face and John looked at him, surprised. He'd never seen Sherlock get like this before.

"You hit him?" Sherlock practically growled.

"I- I didn't mean to...I just..." He sighed.

"How bad is it?" asked John.

"I dunno, I left right after I hit him. His nose was bleeding; that was about all I saw."

"Is he still back at the flat?" asked John. Greg nodded. "Alright, maybe Sherlock and I should go and check on him, to make sure he's alright...Come on, Sherlock," said John, tugging on Sherlock's hand slightly. Greg followed close behind them.

* * *

Mycroft read the texts Lestrade had sent him. He threw his phone angrily across the room. Sorry didn't fix anything. Sorry wouldn't make Mycroft's nose stop bleeding. Sorry wouldn't make the bruise go away. Mycroft was angry with Lestrade, but more hurt that he'd done that to him. Mycroft let Greg into his life, trusted him even, and this was what he got for being so stupid. He rolled over on the sofa, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. No, he thought to himself, sorry wouldn't fix anything.

* * *

John opened the door to the flat, still holding Sherlock's hand, and saw Mycroft curled up on the sofa, a rubbish bin full of bloody tissues beside him.

"Mycroft," he said softly.

Mycroft sat up and turned around looking at him. His face was bruised and his nose looked broken. His eyes were swollen and red like he'd been crying.

"Jesus Christ..." murmured John. He knelt down by the sofa. "Here, let me clean you up a bit." He took the bloody tissue from Mycroft's hand and threw it in the bin. Using a new tissue, he gently cleaned the blood off Mycroft's face. He frowned at Mycroft's crooked nose. "I'll have to straighten it; it might hurt a bit." Mycroft nodded and winced as John snapped his nose back into place. Sherlock handed John the ice he was just about to ask him to go and get. "Thanks," said John, semi-surprised that Sherlock knew before he'd asked him for it.

* * *

_Sherlock was nine years old. Mycroft was sixteen. Their dad came home drunk again. He was about to lash out at Sherlock. He'd grabbed him by the arm and shook him. Sherlock was scared. His dad had hit him before. Once he'd even broken Sherlock's arm. They told everyone Sherlock had fallen off his bike, but everyone knew what really went on in the Holmes household. No one cared. No one helped them. They turned on the telly, and kept reading their books, and pretended they couldn't hear the screaming of the two children or the smashing plates and vases, toppling over furniture as their drunken father chased after them._

_Sherlock's father had grabbed him by the arm and Sherlock screamed and his father shook him violently. Mycroft saw and what he did was nothing short of heroic. Mycroft jumped on their dad, his arms around their father's neck and clung on, trying to pull him away from his little brother. Their father let go of Sherlock and turned on Mycroft. He punched him in the face so hard Mycroft fell over. Blood dripped from Mycroft's nose and little Sherlock grabbed him by the hand and they ran upstairs. Mycroft closed the door and put a chair under the knob so their father couldn't get in._

Sherlock looked at Mycroft now, holding an ice pack to his bruised, bloody nose while John took care of him. He bit his lip angrily and turned and walked out of the flat.

* * *

Lestrade stood outside, leaning against the wall of his and Mycroft's apartment. He felt horrible; he wished he could at least go inside and see if Mycroft was alright.

The front door opened and Sherlock's dark figure walked out. Before Greg even knew what was happening, Sherlock had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the brick wall painfully, though Greg thought he probably deserved the pain. Sherlock was breathing heavily, practically panting. Greg would never forget the look of raw anger and pain on his face. His lips didn't move, but his eyes were screaming at Greg. _You hurt him, you monster. You hurt my big brother._

The door opened again and John came outside this time. Sherlock let go of Greg with a slight shove, pushing him back against the wall.

"You're just like my dad," he spat.

With that, Sherlock and John left, leaving Greg standing there in stunned silence. He slid down the wall and sat on the sidewalk, hating himself more and more by the second.

_Are you okay? GL_

No answer.

_I didn't know about your dad. I feel horrible enough anyway, please tell me you're alright. GL_

_You broke my nose, you twat. MH_

_Jesus...I didn't mean to, I swear. I don't know what came over me. Please let me make it up to you. GL_

_How do you plan to do that? MH_

_I don't know, just please let me in. GL_

_The door's unlocked. MH_

Greg stood and opened the door, walking into the flat. He saw Mycroft, curled up on the sofa, holding an ice pack on his nose.

"God, Myc..." murmured Greg. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened, really."

Mycroft didn't answer.

Greg frowned and bit his lip. "I know you have every right to hate me, but please, at least accept my apology."

Mycroft looked at him but didn't say anything. Blood dripped from his nose again and Mycroft went to grab a tissue, but Lestrade grabbed one instead.

"Here, let me," he said and knelt down in front of Mycroft, gently dabbing at the blood to clean him up. He hesitantly pressed his lips to Mycroft's forehead.

Without warning, Mycroft burst into tears and buried his head in Greg's shoulder, crying hysterically. Lestrade wrapped his arms around Mycroft and sat up on the sofa with him.

"Shh...it's alright, Myc...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..." murmured Greg, rubbing a hand on his back comfortingly. Greg despised himself in that moment. He'd never seen Mycroft cry before, never seen him display any emotions for that matter. Now he was practically falling apart in Greg's arms. His nose started to bleed again, staining Greg's shirt. Greg sat up and handed him another tissue.

"I'm s-sorry..." murmured Mycroft.

Greg shushed him softly. "No, you don't have to apologise, Myc. You don't have to apologise for anything." He kissed the top of Mycroft's head. "I'm so, so sorry. I love you."

"I love you too..." murmured Mycroft.

After a few moments, Mycroft sat up and wiped his eyes. He looked at his hands as he spoke.

"It's not okay...what you did. It - it isn't fine. It hurt." He wiped his eyes again. "The fact that you _did _hit me hurt even more than when you actually hit me...And I'm still upset with you, b-but..." He inhaled deeply. "I accept your apology."

Greg nodded quietly and looked at Mycroft. "Thank you," he murmured. He softly wiped the tears from Mycroft's cheek, careful not to hurt him.

"I love you," whispered Mycroft.

"I love you too."


End file.
